The Marquis' Kiss (The Marvelous Munroes Book 3) Page 20

  The woman he loved.

  He was an idiot not to have seen it before. How could he not fall in love with a woman who was loving and giving, who opened her heart willingly even as he kept his sheltered? He turned slowly and met Margaret’s gaze. Her face was puckered and pale, but instead of accusation or anger in her blue eyes, he saw sadness. She was disappointed in him. She had every right to be. His gut clenched.

  He started forward, and Catherine caught his arm.

  “Thomas, I…” she began.

  He shrugged her off. “Not now, Catherine. We’ve done enough damage for one night. I’ll talk with you later.”

  He started forward again. His guests eyed the tableau in varying states of amazement and amusement. Even Reggie looked stunned. Mr. Munroe shook his clearly distressed wife off his arm and moved to intercept Thomas. Thomas waved him away. The musicians, seeing his movement toward the lady, began the unmistakable strains of a waltz. Margaret bolted across the room and out the double doors to the verandah. Thomas could only follow.

  He pulled up short at the steps down into the garden. The light was dimming, and, amidst the riotous blooms, he did not see her immediately.

  “Shall I fetch her for you, my lord?” Pinstin panted at his elbow. “She is my cousin, after all, and if I do say so myself, I know the way to handle her properly.”

  Thomas took both his hands and grabbed Reggie by the lapels of his navy velvet coat, lifting the fellow to the toes of his evening pumps. “I’ve had about all I can take tonight, Pinstin. This is between the lady and myself. You will return to the house, and you will mention nothing of this evening to anyone or so help me, cousin or no, I will thrash you within an inch of your worthless life. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Reggie squeaked, eyes bulging in obvious fear.

  Thomas dropped him and turned his gaze to the garden. Reggie gulped and fled.

  I’m overwrought, Thomas thought, scanning the grounds. I’ve been an idiot in so many ways. Cranwell was right—it does no one any good to bury emotions. No more. He spotted a shadow amongst the roses and wound his way to Margaret’s side.

  “Go away,” she said before he was closer than five feet.

  “To the point as always,” he tried teasing, edging closer.

  “Would you like it wrapped in sugar? Go away, please.”

  “No,” he replied, succeeding in reaching her side. He put out a hand to touch her shoulder, and she shrugged him off.

  “Oh, whyever not?” she demanded, turning her back on him. “You’ve made your feelings abundantly clear, at last. And I was afraid you could not do so. I suppose I should have expected this outcome. Were you trying to be kind before? Were you going to wait out the whole summer to tell me you had determined we will not suit?”

  “Won’t you let me explain?” Thomas tried, wracking his brain for a way to do just that.

  “No,” she repeated. “There is nothing to explain. For whatever reason, you have finally decided that the perfect Thomas DeGuis cannot marry a notorious Original like Margaret Munroe. No one will fault you. I imagine some like Lord Darton will celebrate.”

  “I am not perfect,” he replied. “And I have not decided we do not suit. I think we suit, admirably. I cannot imagine a more delightful companion in life.” He pulled the DeGuis diamond from his pocket. “I had intended to do this another way, but my own foolishness prevented it. Margaret Munroe, will you marry me?”

  She gasped, whirling to stare at him. He could see the sparkle of tears on her cheeks. He offered her a smile, conscious of the way his heart was suddenly hammering inside his rib cage, as fast and furious as the hooves of their horses when they raced. But if he died that moment, it would be worth it to know she accepted him. She continued to stare for a moment, as if doubting what she had heard, then her gaze dropped to the diamond in his grip.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  He took her left hand and carefully slid it over the glove onto her fourth finger, where it fit as if it belonged there. “The DeGuis diamond. It is customary to give it to the bride-to-be when proposing.”

  She stared at it another moment before cocking her head to glance up at him. “Are you sure about this, Thomas?” she asked. “You didn’t exactly sound proud of me a moment ago. You don’t have to offer yourself as an apology.”

  “What I meant inside,” he told her, “was that Catherine should not be comparing herself to you because you are one of a kind. No woman could possibly match you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What a kind explanation. From anyone else, I’d think it a lie.”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  She took a deep breath. “No, never.” Glancing down at the ring, she bit her lip, and dark spots appeared on her glove, stains from her renewed crying.

  Moved, he pulled her into his arms. “I am quite serious, Margaret,” he murmured into her hair. “I want you to marry me. I can think of no finer woman to have by my side. Please believe me.”

  “I’d be delighted to,” she hiccoughed through her crying. She raised her head and gazed at him, eyes luminous. “If you would just kiss me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Margaret gazed up at him, heart racing. Surely now, having proposed, he would kiss her. She had seen the tenderness in his eyes, deep, sweet. As she watched, doubt crept in, then fear. He was afraid to kiss her. Even now the DeGuis composure was reasserting itself. There was only one thing for it. Margaret arched up on tiptoe and kissed him.

  He recoiled immediately, so that their lips barely brushed. Determined, she pursued him, throwing herself into his arms. The weight of her pressing against him put him off balance. He had no choice but to tighten his embrace, stumbling backward to fetch up against a maple. For a moment more his lips remained cold beneath hers, and she could feel her despair building. Then, with a groan that either signaled surrender or annoyance, he bent his head to hers.

  The kiss was as wonderful as the man she loved—warm, powerful, all-consuming. It was as if, having kept his emotions in control for so long, they burst forth in a torrent that threatened to sweep them both away. He devoured her mouth, peppered kisses across her cheek, buried his lips in the hollow of her throat. She laughed aloud for the joy of it, shivering in delight. The sound had not even faded before he broke off, nearly dropping her in his haste. Even in the moonlight, she could see he had reddened.

  “Forgive me,” he rasped out, running the back of his hand across his swollen lips as if to wipe away the last few minutes. “I don’t know what came over me. I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

  Margaret nearly cried out in disappointment and bewilderment. Couldn’t he tell how much his kiss had meant to her? Hadn’t he felt the joyful response of her body? Couldn’t he see the love she could feel shining in her eyes? He flinched at her look, now reproachful, and she cringed. She had lost against the DeGuis reticence. She couldn’t stand to look at him.

  Turning her back, she fumbled with the diamond, yanking it off her finger. It felt like a dead weight in her hand. Gathering the shreds of her wounded pride, she turned back to him and shoved out the ring.

  “Here, take it,” she ordered with a voice that barely shook. “Did you really think I would marry a man who cannot be intimate? The famed consequence of the DeGuis name means nothing. All I wanted was you.”

  “Margaret,” he choked, refusing to accept the rock. His eyes were tortured. A perverse part of her was glad. The kinder part of her quailed. She seized his hand and slapped the diamond into it.

  “Take it, Thomas. Give it to some colorless female who doesn’t care.” She turned on him again, feeling hot tears burning behind her eyes. He caught her arm, but before he could speak, another voice cut in.

  “Unhand me! Help!”

  There was a muffled cry of surprise and the thud of something heavy falling.

  “Catherine?” Thomas called, frowning. Margaret rolled her eyes.

  “And there’s the final act.
” She grabbed his hand and towed him in the direction of the call. “You must see this, Thomas. I’m sure you will appreciate it. Another DeGuis who cannot find an appropriate way to acknowledge feelings.”

  They stepped out of the roses to the center bench of the garden. Catherine bent over the prone figure of a young man. Court stood nearby, rubbing the knuckles of his hand and looking baffled. He straightened in obvious relief at the sight of Thomas.

  “What is going on here?” Thomas demanded.

  Catherine sat to cradle the young man’s head in her lap. His blond curly hair was tousled, his full lower lip trickled blood, and he gazed reproachfully at Court like a puppy who’d been chastised by its master. Catherine pointed a trembling finger at the viscount.

  “That miscreant attacked us!”

  Margaret wanted to argue, remembering the plan Catherine had described, but the blood on Christien’s lip was rather convincing. Court’s protest only served to reinforce the picture.

  “And what was I to think? The fellow had his arms about you!”

  Catherine immediately began to argue. The young man voiced his reproof, and Court crossed his arms and glowered. Thomas glanced among them, frown deepening.

  “Enough,” Margaret thundered. They all blinked at her, stuttering into silence. She turned to Thomas. “Your sister is in love with an itinerant French painter named Christien LaTour. That,” she pointed to the man, “if I am not mistaken, is he. Be so kind as to introduce yourself, Monsieur LaTour.”

  Christien scrambled to his feet, tugging his worn brown coat into place and running a hand back through his hair. Catherine clung to his other arm, making his attempt at a bow impossibly awkward.

  “My lords, your servant,” he said in a soft tenor. “And if I may correct Miss Munroe, I am not an itinerant. I am an artist. It is only a matter of time before I find a sponsor.”

  “A very short time, I’m sure,” Catherine murmured, large eyes worshipful. “He is gifted.” He reddened under her praise.

  “I believe you’ve met Viscount Darton,” Margaret continued. “And as you’ve been skulking about the place for days, you must have recognized Thomas, Marquis DeGuis.”

  The fellow’s color heightened further as Thomas scowled. He adjusted his rumpled cravat. “Mademoiselle Munroe has a unique way with words. I did not consider it skulking.”

  “Of course not,” Catherine declared with a frown at Margaret. “After all, I invited him.”

  Thomas rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I am having difficulty following all this. Catherine, perhaps you should explain.”

  Catherine immediately paled, glancing between her brother and the man on her arm. “I…well…I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Oh, give it up!” Margaret snapped. “You have been caught. If you could not be honest before, at least do us the honor of being so now.”

  Catherine’s mouth puckered at the censure. Christien gave her hand a squeeze. Then he disengaged from her and stepped forward, raising his head. “Lord DeGuis, I met your sister last winter when Lady Agnes commissioned me to paint a miniature of her. We fell in love.”

  “Instantly,” Catherine breathed in raptured confirmation.

  “I see,” Thomas intoned. Margaret watched him, but as usual, his face gave no indication of what he was thinking.

  “Told you there was another fellow,” Court interjected.

  “I realize I am not worthy of your sister’s hand,” Christien continued. “I have urged her repeatedly to accept Lord Darton’s offer of marriage. I know he will care for her.”

  Margaret was not surprised by Catherine’s immediate protest. She was surprised to hear Court chime in just as heatedly.

  “Certainly I’d care for her,” he avowed. “But just as certainly, I refuse to marry a woman who loves elsewhere. I have high standards for my bride, and love, for me, is one of them.”

  Margaret reached out to clap him on the shoulder, startling him. “Well said, my lord! I never thought you had scruples.”

  He frowned. “I gather that is supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Just say thank you,” Thomas advised. “I find it safest.” He turned to the couple. “And what do you propose now?”

  “I won’t marry anyone else,” Catherine declared, stomping her foot and moving to recapture Christien’s arm. She clung defiantly and rather possessively.

  He removed her gently, but firmly. “You must marry someone else. I cannot care for you as your brother does.”

  She puckered again, and Margaret marveled at their idiocy.

  “I can see we will not resolve this tonight,” Thomas put in before she moved to intervene and as Catherine threatened tears. “Master LaTour, would you be so good as to wait on us tomorrow, say eleven? I believe I may know of a sponsor for you that would put this entire picture in a different light, if you pardon the pun.”

  Now Catherine turned worshipful eyes on her brother. “Oh, Thomas. I never knew you had it in you.”

  Thomas kept a smile on his face, though Margaret could see by the tick in his cheek that he wanted to laugh at her. “I take it back, Catherine. You are beginning to have some traits very like Miss Munroe.”

  “That,” his sister said with a toss of her head, “I take as a compliment. My love, may I see you to the gate?”

  Christien bowed to Thomas, this time gracefully, and accepted her arm. Court watched them go with a shake of his head.

  “A French artist,” he muttered. “Who would have thought?”

  “Be a good fellow, Court,” Thomas put in, “and leave us alone for a few minutes? I have something of importance to discuss with Miss Munroe.”

  Court coughed, hastily bowing out of the clearing. Margaret swallowed, facing him at last.

  “I’m not certain I have the strength to hear what you have to say, Thomas,” she told him. “I know all the reasons we do not suit. You do not like the fact that I race, you hate the waltz, you think Comfort House a shocking way to fulfill the Christian commission. Is there anything left to say?”

  “Yes,” he maintained, moving to capture her hands again. “Can’t you see how much I’ve changed, Margaret? How much you’ve changed me? I love having you beside me when we race. I love not knowing whether I can beat you on any given day. I even like feeling free to maul your cousin when he annoys me. I fully intended to waltz with you tonight, and, if you’ll just agree to marry me, I will prove it to you in front of my family and our guests. As to Comfort House, while it does concern me that you volunteer there, it has nothing to do with whether it is the right thing to do, just as I agree with you that workhouses are not the answer. I simply worry for your safety. As I suspect I would not be welcome there to protect you, we will merely have to hire you a strapping footman to escort you.”

  Margaret smiled wryly. “It does my heart good to hear you say this, Thomas, but when all is said and done, you don’t really want to marry me. That is clear. Can we not leave it at that?”

  “No,” he said, “we cannot. You value the truth, Margaret Munroe. It’s time you heard it.”

  Margaret steeled herself for the worst. He would finally tell her what kept him from opening his heart to her, that horrid secret that kept them apart.

  “It can only be our different approaches to life,” she said, sounding defensive even to her own ears. “I warned you from the beginning that we were too different.”

  “Differences can attract as well as repel,” he countered. “In truth, I am not certain I will ever truly appreciate the nuances of living in the moment. I was hoping to rely on you for my guide.”

  “I want to be more than a guide, Thomas,” she chided. “I want to be your wife, your lover. I’d be a fool to discount your intelligence, your breeding, and your wealth, especially as my stepmother continually throws them in my face, but I’d cheerfully marry you without all those things if I had your love.”

  “You have it,” he insisted, tightening his grip on her hands as if he could make her believe
it. “I did not expect to fall in love, but I did. My life will be hollow if you refuse me, Margaret.”

  She wrenched her hands away. “Then why? Why do you persist in keeping your heart hidden?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  He wanted to tell her. He knew he had to do so. Only then could their love truly blossom. He straightened, resolving to lay it all out for her, once and for all.

  Pain shot up from his gut to his chest, and he gasped aloud, forced to bend against it.

  Margaret was instantly beside him. “Thomas, what is it?”

  He shook his head, clutching his chest in an irrational hope he could somehow stop the agony. Searing heat spurted upward through his throat, and he swallowed bile.

  She put her arm about his shoulder. “Take a deep breath,” she advised, and he thought he heard the barest hint of panic in her voice. “And another. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  He obeyed her, and the pain abated, leaving him as usual feeling frustrated and not a little afraid. “Sorry,” he muttered as he straightened through the lingering burning. “Don’t look so worried. I’m fine.”

  “You are most assuredly not fine,” Margaret scolded him. “Did you notice the utter misery your sister went through hiding her feelings this past week? Tell me what’s wrong. Is it your heart?”

  He wanted to shield her, but her eyes were implacable. “I fear so,” he admitted.

  She drew in a breath. “How many of these attacks have you had?”

  “Three, with the first last winter.”

  She frowned. “Have you seen a physician? Is there nothing that can be done?”

  “I saw a physician after the first and second attacks. He thought the first an aberration. At the time, I must admit that opinion was comforting. After the second attack, he thought my heart was failing from too much exertion. He advised me to settle my courtship quickly, not,” he added hurriedly before she could get the wrong impression, “that that had any bearing on my decision to propose.”

  She cocked her head as if in thought. “Since we’ve known each other, I’ve heard your heart speed on several occasions, yet you never had an attack. Show me where the pain is the greatest.”